


three years

by novoaa1



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Consent, F/F, Idiots in Love, Knotting, Magic, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Scylla Ramshorn needs a hug, Sex, Soft Raelle Collar, Vaginal Sex, absolute idiots drinking so many gallons of wlw juice, alpha raelle collar, am i a scylla apologist? possibly. very possibly., cause raelle is really big on consent which is super sexie of her, episode tag: s01e02 my witches, gentlewoman raelle collar, omega scylla ramshorn, protective raelle collar, soft bitches in love, this is placed in like. the beginning of season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25563310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Fort Salem is next.Her target: Raelle Collar.Designation: Alpha.Her file is thin—a standard army-issue headshot paper-clipped to exactly three sheets of paper. She does her research on the bus ride over, andmaybelingers on the girl’s photograph for longer than she’d like to admit.She’s cute, Scylla thinks.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 34
Kudos: 256





	1. salem town

**Author's Note:**

> okay uhh take it easy on me here i binge watched fort salem like three days ago and this is my first try at writing them.. . also my first go at writing a/b/o dynamics so
> 
> also quick sidenote: i wasn't super sold on this show to begin but the acting (especially with the actresses who played raelle and scylla) fuckin ate that shit UP like it was a gourmet meal and i'm still not over it
> 
> let me know what you think?

Three years. 

That’s how long it’s been since Scylla’s last heat. 

Three years of (somewhat) normal hormones, zero mood swings, and an overall blissfully uneventful monthly cycle.

No expensive-as-hell suppressants making her queasy, no burning heat between her thighs that has her fucking herself raw for days on end in some frenzied (but ultimately futile) attempt to fill the agonizing _emptiness_ within her. 

Sure, it didn’t come free in any sense of the word. 

Three years ago saw her on the worst day of her entire life: Mom and Dad’s screams echoing from the living room, Scylla curled tightly in a ball on the grimy floor of their two-car garage praying for it to stop, copper-scented blood (that Scylla didn’t find until hours later) soaking the beige carpets beneath their lifeless bodies. 

Three years ago, Scylla lost _everything_ —her family, her refuge, her _home_.

She’s rarely stable enough to make jokes about it, but on the rare occasion that she is, she’ll curl her lips into a derisive smirk and say that the Goddess (or whoever runs this hellish planet) kind of owed her for taking her parents that day—that relieving her of her heats for the foreseeable future was the least She (or whoever) could’ve done in the wake of such senseless tragedy. 

Well, regardless—years pass. 

She meets a kindly-seeming woman who calls herself Willa. (As it turns out, she’s not all that kind.) Joins the antithesis of the United States Army—The Spree—at her behest. 

She doesn’t mind it much (though some days she’ll question their intent, for she fears it’s nowhere near as noble as it claims to be). Most days, she _likes_ it, even. 

Three years pass by in something of a blur. She gets her orders straight from Willa, gives mission reports in the field through any mirror she happens across, and always returns straight back to headquarters for debrief—no detours. 

Her heats still don’t come. 

A couple weeks later, they give her a helium balloon. 

It’s cute, she supposes. Yellow, like a quintessential taxi cab. 

Willa tells her she’s to visit a popular shopping mall two districts over, pop the balloon in the center of the food court at lunchtime. 

People will fall, then—men and women and children. Their mouths will leak blood, and everyone (Scylla included) will think them dead. 

Of course, they won’t be, Willa assures her. 

Willa says their deaths are temporary, their souls stored in a purgatory of sorts—a waiting room, if you will—between the land of the living and the land of the dead. 

Willa says they’ll all come back when The Spree have finished their work. She says it’s not quite resurrection, but something to that effect. Point being, they’re not _dead_ dead, just… _sort of_ dead. 

Scylla pops the taxi-cab-yellow balloon, watches thousands of innocents take a nose-dive onto the polished flooring at ground level, and repeats what Willa told her until her head spins. 

_They’ll come back_ , she tells herself as she’s clambering into a stolen car and burning her bland face off for another. _They’ll come back_.

(It seems to get less and less convincing every time she says it.) 

Fort Salem is next. 

Her target: Raelle Collar. 

Designation: Alpha.

Her file is thin—a standard army-issue headshot paper-clipped to exactly three sheets of paper. 

She does her research on the bus ride over, and ~~maybe~~ lingers on the girl’s photograph for longer than she’d like to admit. 

She’s cute, Scylla thinks. 

Short hair, thin stringy locks that look woven from morning sunlight. Catlike eyes, blue like cloudless skies overhead. 

18 years old (a little younger than Scylla), 5’4” (an inch taller). 

Hails from Chippewa Cession, near Carolina. 

Notable issues with authority, power potentiality off the fucking charts. 

Intriguing.

Scylla thinks that in another life, she’d find this girl rather charming. 

Alas, that theoretical life is not this one, and she has to remind herself that this girl—Raelle Collar—is not her friend. 

Exactly one day later, her not-friend Raelle Collar kisses her until she’s lightheaded, shoves her up against a wall and fingers her to the most intense orgasm she’s ever had in her entire life—in a matter of minutes, all those flimsy self-assurances are thrown right out the fucking window (along with Scylla’s painfully naive hopes that she might remain unattached).

Her smile is dorky but inexplicably delightful; her eyes are a hundred times bluer than her picture led Scylla to believe; and on top of all that, she wrings orgasms from Scylla’s trembling body like they’re easy and fucks her _hard_ into the mattress like she knows that Scylla can take it and doesn’t _ever_ push down on Scylla’s scalp to make her choke while giving head like all the other alphas do. 

Sooner than she can blink, she’s praying to wake up in Raelle Collar’s lean arms in a world where the U.S. Army and The Spree are nothing more than fabled stories, where helium balloons are for celebrations and not (alleged) massacres, where Raelle Collar can ask Scylla about her family in the golden light of early morning and Scylla doesn’t feel the need to lie for the sake of this _stupid_ mission. 

For better or worse, she doesn’t. 

She impersonates Helen Graves (and feels inexorably queasy as she does it), gives a wide-eyed and completely trusting Raelle some vague details about her parents’ deaths, then traipses off to Salem Town alongside the rest of her necro unit with a bleeding conscience and an incorrigibly chivalrous blonde lingering in the forefront of her mind for her troubles. 

She’s careful not to mind the sickness in her gut, the burning beneath her skin, the agonizing hollowness filling her chest. 

It _can’t_ be her heat, she reminds herself on the bus-ride over to Salem Town. It _can’t_ be. 

Exactly one hour later, she’s stumbling through the desolate streets (all the townsfolk and visitors—Raelle included—currently attending the Pageant in the park), feeling like collapsing and dying on the rank-smelling cobblestones underfoot.

Every step takes her farther from the park, from the excited crowd (comprised of witches and mortals alike) attending the Pageant, from _Raelle_. 

It feels like hell, stumbling back and away, the soles of her boots feeling obscenely heavy like they’ve been encased in blocks of concrete. Her eyes water and her chest burns and that sensitive place between her shaking thighs _aches_ like nothing she’s ever known. 

She doesn’t see the man coming, but she sure as hell smells him—cigarette smoke and stale booze and overpowering _alpha_ drifting over her in a cloud of nauseating pheromones, invading her nostrils and clogging her airways and urging her to submit to him despite every other bone in her body telling herself not to, that he isn’t the one… that he isn’t her alpha. 

He’s grinning from ear to ear as he backs her up against solid brick, boring down on her in a darkened alley with crooked yellow teeth and juniper-green eyes flickering with bad intent and hot breaths that reek of cheap beer. 

“My, my, my.” He snickers, like this is funny. (It isn’t.) “What do we have here?"

He’s burly and broad-shouldered and _strong_ —a born-and-bred alpha, through and through—but he is not _her_ alpha, and despite her inner omega’s incessant wails for the knot of a more dominant creature, his close proximity to her in this moment is nothing short of repulsive. 

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” he husks, lips grazing across the heated skin of her cheek. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for an omega in heat to be out so late at night, all alone… "

His large hands are solid and firm and _rough_ upon her hips, but they are not Raelle’s, and for that alone, Scylla can’t help but despise them. Despise _him_. 

Still, she knows better than to defy him (or at least, she _used_ to)—but a second later there’s the telltale sound of him undoing his belt buckle, and Raelle’s gentle face is flashing that charming white-toothed grin in her mind’s eye, and she is kneeing him _hard_ in the crotch because he is not her alpha and she will _not_ be his omega. 

He crumples to the ground at her feet, sputtering and cursing and promising he’ll kill her, and Scylla is staring unseeingly back down at him and idly taking note of a distant pain in her right knee and feeling a sense of all-encompassing shock take hold of her body, freezing her where she stands. 

_Oh, fuck_ , she thinks.

The omega inside her is torn—riddled with guilt; yearning to tear down the alley and out onto the streets screaming Raelle’s name, to fall down to her knees before this enraged alpha and submit (so as to avoid any further unpleasantness past that which she’s already earned).

She smells it before she sees it—sees _her_. 

Patchouli oil and cedarwood, spearmint gum and familiar mild-mannered _alpha_ —it’s like an alleviating balm upon her jagged insides, a protective refuge where previously she had nothing, a promise of healing for the world which seems to crumble mercilessly around her. 

“Get the _fuck_ away from her,” Raelle growls, words dripping with an overtly protective ire that appeals to Scylla’s omega like nothing else in the world ever could. “ _Now_.”

The man scrambles to his feet with a snort, clutching his crotch with both hands and flashing a disdainful glare Scylla’s way. (The heated animosity behind it is more than enough to rip a pitiful whimper from her trembling lips.) 

“Whatever,” he huffs, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles of his threadbare zip-up hoodie and spitting balefully onto the cement. “The omega bitch is fuckin’ crazy anyways.” 

With that, he takes off—running down the alley (a notable limp hampering his quickened gait) and hanging a sharp right out onto the well-lit street without a backwards glance. 

Meanwhile, Scylla focuses all her remaining energy on not collapsing down onto the ground, and Raelle stands frozen stiffly before her, turning from Scylla down to the end of the alley and back again as if agonizing over whether to chase the alpha down and make him regret being born, or check in with Scylla. 

_Go_ , Scylla tells Raelle in her head, a blaze of righteous anger flaring in her gut. _Teach his ass a lesson_. 

Heat surges between her legs like a flood and she lets out a paltry whimper, and she knows Raelle’s decision is made. 

Sooner than Scylla can form a coherent thought, she’s there—gentle hands warm on her waist, smooth forehead pressed delicately against her own, frantic blue eyes searching Scylla’s for… something, though Scylla can’t guess for the life of her what it might be. 

“Scyl, are you okay? Talk to me, hon, _please_ —“

“It hurts,” she whines, hating herself for showing such weakness but knowing damn well she’s powerless to stop it either way. “It _burns_ , Raelle, _please_ —"

“It’s your heat, baby,” Raelle explains patiently (though Scylla can hear the strained note in her tone, evidence of just how quickly her restraint is waning). “We need to get you somewhere safe. C’mon, let’s—”

“No!” she blurts out, gripping Raelle’s trim shoulders in unsteady hands and pulling desperately until their bodies are flush against each other’s, the pressure of it intoxicating and soothing all in one. “I—Please, Rae,” she begs, taking one of Raelle’s hands in her own and guiding it down to the waistband of her uniform slacks. “I _need_ you to touch me, fill me up, make it _hurt_ —"

A low, guttural growl from Raelle stops her short. “Don’t,” she warns, gravelly and harsh. “I won’t be able to control myself if you keep talking like that."

Scylla shudders intensely in place, feeling an ever-growing stiffness pressing insistently up against her thigh. “Please, Rae,” she mewls. “I need it, I—I need _you_.”

In a split second, everything changes—their surroundings go from dark to light, from midnight shadows to a warm yellowed artificial glow all around. The ground beneath her feet—from stained ashen-grey cement to plush ecru-colored carpeting. A dry outdoor breeze becomes cool, well-conditioned air inside. 

Scylla gasps as they split apart, watches Raelle stagger backwards with shock written all across her pretty features. 

“What the _hell_ ?” she gasps, chest heaving as she takes in their surroundings: minibar along the opposite wall, polished mahogany desk pushed against the cream-painted wall to the left… California-king-sized bed with a beautiful wood-carven headboard and an absolute fuckton of pillows to the right. “Did you—?”

Raelle blinks owlishly, bringing her hands up before her face and staring at them in wonder. “I… Maybe?”

_'Raelle is more powerful than she knows_ ,’ Willa had said. Her words echo throughout Scylla’s heat-addled mind like a broken record, one Scylla sorely hopes she’ll forget given time. 

“Holy shit,” Scylla giggles out, forgetting the potent burn beneath her skin for a moment as a wide grin stretches its way across her features. “Where… Where _are_ we?”

“Um… I—" Raelle whirls around, eyeing the room frantically before finally seeming to settle on a framed black-and-white photograph (depicting a bespectacled man with gelled combed-over hair and large ears standing before a sleek wooden desk in the executive municipal offices of the city) hung just aloft the desk on the left wall. “A-ha! There!” she exclaims, and Scylla fights the urge to roll her eyes. _What a dork_. “Corner of the photo. It says 'Salem Town.'"

Scylla squints at it. 

Sure enough, in the bottom right-hand corner: ‘Mayor Vern Miller - Salem Town, 1972’ stamped out in a classic typewriter-esque font. 

“So… We’re still in Salem Town.”

Raelle turns back around and nods, though she doesn’t quite look convinced. “I… hope so?” 

“You know what, I don’t have time for this.” Scylla promptly shoves Raelle backwards by the shoulders, watches her alpha sprawl sloppily atop the eggshell-white duvet with an undignified squeak. She herself is all too quick to follow, crawling atop her and slamming her lips against Raelle’s in a truly filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and a fervent desire that sets Scylla’s very being aflame from the inside out. 

Scylla pulls herself away (with a great deal of effort, mind you) to beg, “Please, Rae.” Raelle’s irises are blown, dilated with lust—only the thinnest band of glacial blue remains. “You’re my alpha, and I _need_ you to—"

In a flash, Raelle’s strong hips flex and twist beneath her thighs, the room spinning, spinning, _spinning_ until she feels her back hit the lavish mattress and the air squeezed from her lungs in a rush; all of a sudden, she’s on the bottom and Raelle is looming over her—all hot exhales and bruising kisses and a willowy body pressing urgently against her own, grinding torturously slow between her open legs and driving her absolutely mad with want. 

“Needy girl,” Raelle rumbles against her lips, the substantial bulge in her slacks pressing just-so into Scylla’s core until she’s whimpering helplessly into their open-mouthed kiss, keening for more, more, _more_. “Tell me what you need, Scyl.”

Scylla arches into her with another high-pitched mewl, kiss-swollen lips tingling with the memory of Raelle’s bruising kiss, her lacey black panties soaked through with her own arousal and plastered to her sodden folds beneath her uniform slacks. 

“P-Please, Rae, don’t tease. I-I need—"

She cuts herself off with another keening whine as a particularly hard thrust of Raelle’s hips drives that rigid length _just right_ along her throbbing center, effortlessly stoking the flames of heightened arousal roaring low in her gut from an impassioned smolder to something truly monstrous.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re not playing fair.”

Raelle gives her that _infuriating_ lopsided smirk, dextrous hands fiddling along the inside of Scylla’s polyester waistband teasingly enough to make her shiver. “I never do.”

“Just—rip my clothes off and _fuck_ me,” Scylla hisses, her patience gone. 

Raelle huffs out a breathy chuckle against her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵


	2. safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you don’t want suppressants, that’s okay, too.” Raelle purses her lips in thought, a slight crease forming between her brows that Scylla aches to reach out and smooth away. "You can ride it out here. I’ll chain myself to a fucking lamp post outside if I start to lose control, call Tally here to keep you company—anything you need, Scyl.”
> 
> “And what if… " Scylla worries her lower lip between her teeth, suddenly feeling shy. “What if I wanted you to stay? To, um… knot me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm i got a freaking amazing response to this somehow, and ended up being inspired to write a second part
> 
> pretty much all filth but also again pls take it easy on me i've never written a/b/o before, much less a sex scene with those dynamics, plus my first time writing these characters
> 
> (and yes, i will proofread this... eventually.... but in the meantime, if there are any super glaring mistakes, definitely feel free to drop a comment pointing them out so i can fix them!)

In a matter of minutes, she finds herself naked on the bed—polyester uniform ripped to shreds, torn pieces of navy-blue fabric littering the carpet all around. Raelle remains very much clothed above her, staring her down with a hungered look in her pretty blue eyes and a bulging tent in her pants flagrant enough to make Scylla’s mouth water. 

For better or worse, that’s as far as it gets before Scylla starts to panic. Her chest seems to tighten of its own accord, her breaths begin coming in labored pants that have little to do with her damning state of mid-heat desperation and everything to do with the raw exposure and vulnerability she feels right now: laid bare at the unconditional mercy of a snarling alpha, plagued by the overpowering _need_ to submit for the very first time in the three long years it’s been since the worst and most painful day of her entire life. 

She needs Raelle’s knot; _aches_ for it unlike any other wanting she’s ever known. Still, as big as that primordial inclination is, the mounting hysteria in her chest is a thousand times bigger. It rises up inside her like a tidal wave, a devastating tsunami, submerging her more rational sensibilities in a flood of something powerful and sovereign and truly vile: a nauseating mixture of weakness and dread and her own traitorous desire.

And Raelle—perfect, loving, endlessly courteous Raelle… she notices in a matter of seconds, because of _course_ she does. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asks, concern etched into every inch of her features, every facet of her roughened tone ripe with genuine care. 

Scylla swallows thickly, heartbeat thudding deafeningly in her ears, panic blurring her vision. “I-It’s nothing, Raelle. Don’t worry, let’s just keep going—"

“We’re not gonna ‘keep going’ with anything if you’re not 100% on board, Scyl,” Raelle protests vehemently, low tones strained with the effort of holding herself back. (Scylla hates herself for being the reason that she has to.) “Talk to me. Do you need space?” Her muscles tense beneath Scylla’s hold, and she makes as if to pull away. “Do you need me to—"

“No!” Scylla hears herself blurt out, though she’s not nearly collected enough to bother being at all perturbed by her painfully evident zeal. “P-Pease stay, Rae, I can’t—I can’t do this if you’re not here.”

“Okay, baby, I’m staying,” Raelle concedes gently. Scylla breathes out a sigh of relief as she feels the tension bleed out of Raelle’s body beneath her fingers. “Just tell me what’s happening, yeah? I want to help.”

Despite the terror compressing her heaving lungs, the near agonizing emptiness between her thighs, she manages a derisive scoff. “‘Help’… Yeah. You always want to ‘help.’”

Raelle huffs out a laugh, but there’s a sense of uneasiness lingering in her lust-blown eyes that Scylla aches to banish. “Is that a bad thing?”

_Fuck_. “No, Rae, of course it’s not a bad thing.” Scylla bites her lip, grazing Raelle’s clothed hips with either knee and forcing herself not to shudder in fear upon contact. “I’m sorry. It’s just… " She sighs. "Three years.”

A crease forms between Raelle well-shaped brows, kiss-swollen lips pushing out into an _adorable_ pout. “‘Three years’?”

“Since my last heat.”

Raelle’s brows shoot towards her hairline. “Huh?”

“Keen as ever,” Scylla teases in a last-ditch attempt at humor—still, it’s poor at best, and they both know it. “They stopped coming when my parents… “ She wavers briefly, purses her lips at the unrepentantly soft look in Raelle’s eyes as she gazes down at her. “I didn’t think… I didn’t _think_ , Rae, I’m so sorry. If I had known—"

“Baby, what are you sorry for? Of _course_ you couldn’t have known."

“But… But now you’re… " she trails off, feeling her cheeks heat with a strong blush as her gaze darts down to the considerable tent straining the crotch of Raelle’s slacks and back up again. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself holding back because of me.” 

Raelle’s brow furrows with consternation, gaze hardening like she’s angry.

Scylla can’t help the way it makes the omega within her cower for fear of swift retribution. 

“Scylla, you are _never_ obligated to me in that way. _Ever_ ,” she says eventually, each word weighty and firm—like a reassurance, a _promise_ , one Scylla is utterly terrified to put her faith in. “Nothing will happen tonight if you don’t want it to. We can ask around, find out where the nearest pharmacy is, get you some suppressants.”

A truly embarrassing whine escapes her throat at the mere mention of suppressants, and Raelle ( _perfect_ Raelle) adjusts accordingly. 

"If you don’t want suppressants, that’s okay, too.” She purses her lips in thought, a slight crease forming between her brows that Scylla aches to reach out and smooth away. "You can ride it out here. I’ll chain myself to a fucking lamp post outside if I start to lose control, call Tally here to keep you company—anything you need, Scyl.”

“And what if… " She worries her lower lip between her teeth, suddenly feeling shy. “What if I wanted you to stay? To, um… knot me?”

Raelle’s chest vibrates with a throaty growl at her words, and Scylla feels the sensation of consummate emptiness return with a vengeance between her thighs, accompanied by a renewed gush of telltale wetness that soaks the sheets beneath her in kind. 

“ _Fuck_ , Scylla, I… " Raelle’s lean build stiffens against her own, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring, her body beginning to tremble with the strain of holding herself back. “Are you _sure_?”

Scylla keens like it hurts (which it does), bone-deep desire and primitive _need_ surging up inside her like molten-hot magma barreling its way to a volcanic crater at breakneck speed. (She thinks she’ll be lucky to make it out of this with her sanity intact.)

“I need to hear you say it, baby.”

Scylla whines but manages a jerky nod, looking Raelle dead in the eye to demonstrate her certainty. “Y-Yes, Rae, this is what I want.”

“Okay, love,” Raelle agrees readily, planting a chaste peck upon Scylla’s lips before she’s moving to work her way down her jaw and the column of her throat, sucking and licking and _biting_ with a kind of unrelenting fervor that brings Scylla very near tears at the merciless way it stokes the already unbearable need broiling in her gut. 

And then… resolutely, inexplicably, Raelle kisses her way down her stomach (riddled with pale-white scars and drops of dewy sweat), guides Scylla further back to allow space for her to settle between her open thighs. She lets out a hot exhale over her painfully slick core, and all at once, her intentions become clear. 

Scylla, for her part, just stares—more than a little bit aroused, of course, but primarily just… confused. 

Honestly, she doesn’t know quite what she expected. Maybe for Raelle to drop her slacks and boxers, yank Scylla to the edge of the bed, forcibly push her thighs apart and ram her swollen cock inside her violently enough to make her scream. (Honestly, with how far gone she is at this point, she probably wouldn’t even mind.)

Sure, she’ll give Raelle some measure of credit, because she’s not like other alphas. She’s gentle, and courteous, and she treats Scylla like she’s an actual person rather than a mewling set of holes to fuck. This she’s proven time and time again, and Scylla knows it wouldn’t be at all fair to disregard it. 

Still, the fact remains that Raelle is an alpha, Scylla is an omega, and they’ve had sex before… a lot. 

Minus a mating mark and a knot, they’re more or less together; Scylla _belongs_ to Raelle, because she is an omega and Raelle is an alpha and they are together. Really, the 'Scylla being in heat’ factor only compounds it ten times over. 

And yet, Raelle remains patient as ever: planting a gentle kiss upon her inner thigh that makes her shudder, lust-blown pupils staring Scylla down all the while. 

“This okay?” she questions softly, her voice like gravel. 

Rather suddenly, her mouth feels quite dry; Scylla settles instead for a shaky nod. 

Raelle chuckles lowly against Scylla’s quivering flesh, like she understands. (Scylla thinks that perhaps she does.)

“Tell me if it gets to be too much, ‘kay?”

Scylla groans, hips twitching, back arching obscenely in a wordless plea for the stimulation she so desperately craves. “Fucking—Yes, Rae, I will, just _please_ —"

Scylla cuts herself with a broken gasp as Raelle (that cheeky little _shit_ ) drags her tongue through slippery folds, all slow and languid. It’s wondrous and heady and not enough all at once—too gentle, too soft, and judging by the amused twinkle in Raelle’s lust-blown pupils, she damn well knows it, too. 

Another leisurely, unhurried lap of the tongue. 

Idly, Scylla wonders if this is what dying feels like. 

“Rae,” Scylla whimpers as yet another long, languorous lick seems to drive her straight to the very brink of insanity. “ _Please_.”

Raelle’s tongue probes her entrance, kiss-swollen lips closing around her hypersensitive clit as she lets out a bemused hum into her folds. It’s like lightning: pleasure zipping up her spine, white-hot flames licking at her insides… a force of _fucking_ nature. 

About a minute more of this (though it feels like ages) finds her dangling on the cusp of a climax that feels earth-shattering—cunt quivering and clenching helplessly around nothing, Raelle’s expert tongue lashing her twitching clit without reprieve, letting loose a truly pitiful series of moans and curses and whines lewd enough to make a pornstar blush. 

“Oh, my f—Rae, right there, please don’t stop, yes yes _yes_ —"

Her orgasm hits like a gunshot, and suddenly she's coming all over Raelle’s tongue with a gush of wetness and an utterly ruined sob. It’s like heaven and hell warring turbulently inside her—blessed release and devastating unfulfillment all in one. A peak that should be more than volatile enough to take the edge off, but only serves to make the unbearable emptiness gnawing at her insides all the more painful. 

“I— _Goddess_ ,” she gasps as she’s coming down from her delirious high, another zealous lick to her very overstimulated clit forcing her to toe the perilous line between decadent pleasure and dizzying pain. 

She’s at Raelle’s mercy here, in every respect (to an even greater degree than ever before): her naked sweat-damp body twitching with aftershocks, muscles burning, lungs heaving audibly for a single breath of fresh air to make her even out once more. 

Raelle, meanwhile, crawls up the length of her body, lays herself on her side to Scylla’s right; rests her cheek upon her hand, strokes Scylla’s disheveled hair and whispers gentle reassurances while she unwinds—piece by piece, breath by breath, word by word. 

She takes every shattered piece of her and glues them back together—glues _her_ back together, and Scylla has never felt so wholeheartedly and unequivocally loved by another in years, since even before that day soldiers murdered her parents and Scylla sobbed on the floor of their two-car garage because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing would ever be the same again. 

What’s more, Raelle doesn’t seem to mind the sizable bulge tenting the crotch of her uniform slacks, though Scylla can see that it’s grating on her in the way her fingers twitch restlessly as they stroke Scylla’s hair, the tightness to her pinkish lips—wet and glistening with evidence of Scylla’s pleasure in the low yellowy light of the room. 

“That was… unexpected,” Scylla manages when she’s collected herself (… somewhat). 

Raelle raises a single brow. “Was it? I love going down on you, Scyl. You know that.”

Scylla feels herself flush at Raelle’s bluntness. “Well, yeah, but… " Her gaze flickers down to the straining bulge in Raelle’s pants and back up again. “You’re really gonna tell me that that isn’t causing you a world of hurt right now?”

“Tonight’s not about me, okay? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Scylla bites her lip, leaning further into Raelle’s calloused palm where it cups her cheek and planting a feather-light kiss at the base of her wrist. “I think you might be perfect,” she whispers out quietly, like it’s a secret. (In a lot of ways, she thinks it kind of is.) 

“Not perfect, baby,” Raelle assures her with a crooked grin. “Just savvy enough to know a good thing when I see it.”

Scylla rolls her eyes (though the heated blush upon her cheeks persists). “Yeah, yeah. I want you naked, alpha. Less talking, more stripping." 

“Your wish is my command.”

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

Raelle insists that they start with Scylla on top; says she wants her to feel safe, in control. (It charms and thwarts her in equal parts.)

Regardless, it’s exhilarating—straddling Raelle’s slender hips, sprawling one hand atop solid washboard abs to steady herself, stroking Raelle’s fleshy length with the other before guiding it to nudge mildly at her fluttering entrance. 

She’s more than slick enough such that speed doesn’t quite matter, but she sinks herself down slowly onto Raelle’s stiffened cock like it does—inch by inch, whimpering at the glorious stretch, only spurred further on by Raelle’s pleasured groans. 

She bottoms out—or, perhaps more accurately, _Raelle_ bottoms out inside her a second later, and it’s entirely overwhelming: Raelle’s jutting hip bones pressed flush against her thighs, her own splayed hands trembling upon a pale muscled stomach that expands and contracts hypnotically with every breath, the sanctified feeling of perfect _fullness_ between her thighs that steals the very breath from her lungs until she thinks she might faint. 

“Goddess, you’re so _tight_ ,” Raelle snarls through gritted teeth, loosely guiding Scylla’s hips with one hand while the other grips the sheets beneath so tightly Scylla fears they’ll tear. 

“F-Fuck,” Scylla stammers back in lieu of response, lifting her hips until only the tip remains (which elicits another low growl from Raelle) before sinking herself right back down to the hilt, _keening_ with pleasure at the heavenly sensation. 

It’s like she can _feel_ the tip of Raelle’s cock nudging her cervix, the exquisite drag against that special spot inside her that no one else (sans Raelle, of course) has ever found, the one that has her spasming wildly around Raelle’s length, approaching a blindingly intense climax (her second, mind you) at warp speed—the kind that she knows will break her if she isn’t careful. 

(Honestly, she’s growing increasingly disinclined to believe she wants to be any longer. Careful, that is.) 

“Don’t hold back,” Scylla pants as another damn near _perfect_ brush of Raelle’s cock against her spot has her vision blurring around the edges. 

Raelle clenches her jaw stubbornly, brows furrowed in concentration, sweat dotting her forehead. She doesn’t say _’I’ll hold back until I know you’re sure’_ aloud, but Scylla hears it anyhow—loud and clear. 

She kneads one of Raelle’s breasts with her left hand, pinches at the other's turgid nipple with her right; leans forward until they’re nose-to-nose, Raelle’s shaky breaths hot against her lips, forces herself not to waver as an erratic jerk of Raelle’s hips buries her length even further in Scylla’s quivering cunt. 

“What’s wrong, alpha?” she questions with a mocking pout, letting her gaze drop to Raelle’s parted kiss-swollen lips and back up again. “Afraid you’ll choke?”

What happens next is a blur of motion—Raelle’s hips flexing and twisting beneath her thighs; lifting, turning her wildly off-balance. 

Her back hits the mattress with a breathless “Oof!”, the impact stealing all the breath from her lungs… And quiet suddenly, their positions are reversed; Raelle on top, Scylla beneath her, giddy and lightheaded as a heady rush of adrenaline fills her veins. 

Still, she’s never been one to be outdone, and she doesn’t intend to start now. 

“This feels familiar,” she remarks with a knowing smirk, feigning hubris even as her inner omega practically _sobs_ at the feel of Raelle pulling out a couple inches before swiftly plunging back balls-deep inside her. 

“Oh, yeah?” Raelle questions breathily, grinning wolfishly as a particularly forceful thrust has Scylla arching obscenely into her, _mewling_ like a bitch in heat. (… Which, she supposes really isn’t all that far off the mark, all things considered.) “We’ll see about that.”

Raelle begins fucking her in earnest, then (well before she can even think to formulate a witty retort); sets a punishing pace that makes her eyes roll back into her head, the walls of her cunt spasming vigorously around her, her body racking itself with shuddering sobs that sound borderline hysterical falling upon her own ears. 

She loses all track of time; she can fathom only the utterly sublime push-and-pull as Raelle drills into her with reckless abandon, wrecking what precious little remains of her fractured composure like a house of flimsy cards—fucking her so _good_ and stretching her _just right_ and—

A growing stretch draws her scattered focus—a burning tension, the telltale ache of a swollen knot prodding her entrance… _urging_ her to make room. 

She whimpers, keens, _howls_ because it hurts. But, the moment it slips inside it’s like divine salvation; the lips of her cunt sealing around the considerable swell of Raelle’s twitching knot with a slick sound that might’ve embarrassed her had she been any more lucid, cunt lips spasming around Raelle’s pulsing shaft in a truly spine-tingling climax that hits her like a fucking freight train. It rips a deafening scream from her throat and clouds her vision in a flood of blinding white, fracturing her at her very core in a way that’s both damning and resplendent all in one. 

If she thought she felt full before, _complete_ … well. It’s nothing compared to what she’s feeling now: spurts of sticky, hot cum painting her insides; filling her in a seemingly endless flood; wringing weak (but no less devastating) orgasms from her overstimulated body in a seemingly endless string that leaves her broken beneath the thoroughly crushing toll it takes, _ruined_ in the best possible way. 

In a manner of minutes, her once-toned stomach goes from level to three months’ pregnant, Raelle’s steadily deflating knot ensuring not a drop of sticky white come spills out in the meanwhile. 

Raelle attends to her as ardently as ever—peppering gentle kisses upon every inch of her sweaty face, whispering ceaseless streams of praise that makes Scylla squirm bashfully beneath her ‘cause she likes it so damn much (which pulls on the knot, which in turn causes Raelle to let loose reflexive snarls that immediately startle Scylla back into stillness). 

It’s a million things—scary, unfamiliar, inexplicably pleasant. 

But above all else… it’s safe. _She’s_ safe. 

(And she has never been more in love.)

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know when you're just trying to write sex but then the characters are just like canonically so idiotically in love with one another, all dopey and heart-eyes, and then you realize you can't just have the sex without the feelings because both of the characters are just too fucking gay for that . sigh

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? comments? .. concerns?
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass to come talk to me there!)


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